


Colour By Number

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Character Death, Conscription, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Multi, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Separation, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:38:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two sweeps since the trolls returned to Alternia, and now they face the culmination of their wrigglerhood dreams: conscription into the Alternian military. Life as an adult troll isn't nearly as easy as movies and stories made it seem, though -- and it didn't look easy to begin with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conscription

There's a sort of wistfulness to the air around the young trolls as they sit on the top of Karkat's hive, watching the twin moons rise while the sun sets behind them. It's quiet outside, too early for any troll in their right mind to be awake and anywhere but in their recuperacoon, but none of the five really mind the early hour. They just want to enjoy each other's company right now, and if that means sleeping all night long, then that's just what they'll do.   
  
Kanaya's skin is glowing, the same way it's been glowing since she nearly died back on the asteroid, and though she claims that it doesn't really bother her, she slides a hood on over her head to shield most of her face, preventing her from becoming a freakish beacon in the rapidly darkening landscape.    
  
It's Tavros who finally breaks the silence that's been stretching around them for the past hour. "I'm really, going to miss you guys," he says in that faltering voice that's only gotten a touch deeper in the sweep or so since they'd returned to Alternia.    
  
Gamzee chuckles, the sound dulled by the sopor slime that's eased its way through his veins constantly since he found it after his disastrous sober episode in the game. "What makes ya think we're all gonna up an' leave you, Tavbro?" He ruffles the fuzzy mohawk between the lowblooded troll's horns.   
  
"When we get divided up, I mean. I don't, uh, think cavalreapers are allowed to, talk to other ranks, at least not for the first few, perigees." He frowns, eyebrows furrowed at the thought of being forcibly separated from the group of trolls that had shared so many experiences together since leaving the brooding caverns.    
  
Kanaya speaks up then, elegant even with a hood shrouding most of her face. "Assuming, of course, that you haven't been culled by imperial drones first."   
  
The silence that falls once again is thicker than before, almost oppressive, and it's Gamzee who breaks it this time, a harsh edge creeping into his words. "Now, sis, why'd you have to up and get them all kinds a nervous? We only got this last night together, none of us wants to get our think on 'bout getting culled right now." He's smiling, the expression made a little more terrifying by the highbood's face paint, but the other three are carefully, pointedly, looking away from them. "You trying to spook us all 'fore we get out there?"   
  
"I'm only being factual, Gamzee," Kanaya says, unmoved. "They have plenty of reasons to cull us, you know. A mutant, a blind girl, a cripple with robotic legs, a rainbowdrinker, and a sopor-addled clown..." She ticks each off her fingers as easily as if she was listing items in her fetch modus. "We all stand a fairly good chance of being culled tomorrow night, as we've discussed before--"   
  
Karkat interrupts her with a snort. "Which is why you think we should all just abscond and live in a cave like Nepeta, spending our entire fucking adulthoods dodging imperial drones and hunting so that we don't starve like they did in--"   
  
"Nepeta has been kind enough to offer to shelter us from imperial drones and the like," the rainbowdrinker's tone is harsh. "They may not cull you immediately, Karkat, but the odds of you being allowed to survive when they see the colour of your eyes are rather slim."   
  
Her words are a sharp reminder of when Karkat's eyes first began to fill in with his blood colour, a red that was too vibrant, too bright, to pass as a shade of Aradia's own rust red hue. They'd tried to mask them with contacts, but the artificial lenses had scratched his sclera and had made the already hot-tempered troll more irate than usual. And with the flush of Karkat's skin and the colour of his body fluids, there was no way he could keep his blood colour hidden on one of the crowded vessels that newly conscripted trolls spent their first sweeps of training aboard.   
  
"And there's your sign," Terezi reminds him in her sharp, rocky voice. "I may be blind, but that sign is illegal even to write in private journals." Her mouth makes the funny shape that's almost identical to a question mark. "You'll be culled the minute they see your shirt."   
  
"I'll wear a plain shirt, then," the mutant scoffs.    
  
"Which is also seen as a sign of rebellion against the Condesce, and therefore, illegal. The only thing about your shirt that isn't illegal is having your symbol in grey. That's just seen as being a tightass," the Libra points out, before grinning toothily at Kanaya. "It's a shame that no one can just make you a new symbol, hm?" She cackles at that, as if she's just told the funniest joke in Alternia and everyone ought to be laughing along with her.    
  
No one laughs.   
  
"Look, they won't cull you or Gamzee, at least," Karkat tries instead. "Jadebloods are fucking rarer than a well-done film with Troll Adam Sandler, and indigo's pretty much fucking royalty, right? You guys are safer than a hoofbeast nude in Equius' hive, I fucking guarantee it."   
  
Gamzee yawns. "Hate to break it to ya, palebro, but it'd be a motherfucking miracle if I made it on one a them 'scription ships alive." The would-be subjuggulator leans backward until he's flat on his back, moving with the slow, fluid grace afforded by sopor-soaked limbs. "There ain't no fuckin' subjuggulator who's gonna want a sopor addict fighting on their motherfucking side, no matter what colour blood I got."    
  
Kanaya nods, her hood bobbing with the movement. "My thoughts precisely, Gamzee. I wouldn't blame them for culling me based on my status as a rainbowdrinker. It is a wonder--"   
  
"A motherfuckin' miracle," Gamzee corrects.   
  
"-- That none of you have chosen to cull or abandon me as of yet," the jadeblood continues, ignoring him. "I can assure you that the imperial drones will not be so merciful, especially since my blood would be considered irreparably tainted by my consumption of other bloods." Despite her even, elegant tone, it is clear from the way Kanaya's jade-coloured lips are pressed into a thin line that she is not nearly as calm as she sounds. Terezi must have sensed it, because she gives the bright-skinned troll a pat on the shoulder.    
  
"Me and Tavros should be fine," the Libra says reassuringly. "I was reading the culling guidelines for this sweep, and they've added prosthetic limbs to the list of non-cullable attributes." The bull-horned troll heaves an audible sigh of relief at the revelation. "And besides, I'm the poster child for the legislacerators. They won't want to cull me. I'm blind justice!" Terezi starts cackling again, and this time, there's an awkward chuckle from the others, because maybe she's right, maybe Tavros and Terezi stand a chance of not being culled for not being perfectly healthy. And if they stand a chance, then maybe they all stand a chance of surviving conscription, of getting to spend some time on board the training ships before being slain in a hygeineblock riot. Karkat's frown dissolves a little, moves a little towards being a smile, at the thought of making it through the culling procedure and getting to live out his wrigglerhood dream of joining the threshecutioners, even with his mutation.   
  
After a while, the hopeful laughter fades, and Kanaya sighs at the gleam now present in Karkat's eye. "If you are intent on risking your life at the conscription, I suppose I could fabricate a shirt with a more passable symbol for you, Karkat, though you will still be on your own as far as eye and blood colour are concerned." Before Karkat can say anything resembling thanks (or an insult masking a thanks), she adds, "I myself will not be attending the conscription, for obvious reasons, and I strongly suggest that you do the same." She turns her head to take in the whole group, her skin creating flickering highlights and shadows in the otherwise dark landscape. "All of you," she clarifies.   
  
"I, would really like to, have, the chance, to be a cavalreaper," Tavros tries to sound as confident as his imaginary Rufio. "And, if Terezi says that, they aren't going to cull me, on account of my legs being all, not really my legs, then, I guess, that would be pretty nice." He can still remember the days when he was confined to his four wheeled device, and culling had seemed like the only possible future for him, and the opportunity he has now is too good to pass up. Karkat says nothing, just folds his arms across his chest in a determined way that does nothing to hide the excitement in his face at the prospect of joining his beloved threshecutioners.   
  
"Well, shit, sis," Gamzee drawls. "If Tavbro'n'Karkat are gonna get their brave all on for 'scription, an' Terez-sis says they're gonna be safe, then I ain't gonna pass up on the miracle of gettin' to join the motherfucking subjuggulators." One gangly arm flails out, flopping on Karkat's head and giving his messy black hair a slow ruffle. "Be motherfucking sacrilegious to look a fucking bitchtits miracle like that in the face and refuse it."   
  
True to form, Karkat protests the fingers in his hair, loudly, and the resulting scuffle does a lot to ease the atmosphere. Kanaya produces a blank black shirt from nowhere and begins to work a new insignia into its fabric in dull grey thread. It's well after midnight when they disperse, and they're exhausted from staying up all day long. It's a pleasant sort of exhaustion, though, the sort born out of a need to stretch out their last hours together on Alternia, the last hours that they're all alive together before the conscription, and not even the reek of Gamzee baking himself another sopor slime pie can take away the generally happy feeling that masks their worries over the upcoming day. Karkat places the new shirt in his sylladex almost reverently, knowing that it's the only saving grace he may have, as Kanaya tries to tell Terezi that showing up for the affair in her old Redglare FLARP gear would probably result in her becoming entertainment for the subjuggulators, assuming she isn't culled first by the drones for such presumptive insolence.   
  
It's another hour before the rainbowdrinking troll leaves, with the other four wishing her well as they all try to quell the nagging feelings in their guts. A troll deciding to purposely skip conscription isn't unheard of, but it's definitely not advised, since it invites the Empire's wrath down on their heads, and the four who've chosen not to dodge the mandatory event could easily lose their lives for any perceived weakness or fault. As they disperse to their own hives, their own respiteblocks and recuperacoons, the thoughts and worries come back to them, threatening to haunt their dreams, but by the time the sopor slime soaks into their skin, it's impossible for them to focus on anything, even something as terrifying and looming as the prospect of their own deaths.   
  
The next night is the one they've been dreading for perigees: Conscription Day. Young trolls make their way towards the predetermined area where imperial drones and adults await them, the drones ready to cull any of this sweep's batch at the first sign of weakness. They're sorted by blood colour, with a large mass of rustbloods on one side and a much smaller group of indigo- and violet-hued trolls standing on the opposite end, aloof in their status as hemospectrum nobility. The colours in-between, the various shades of yellow, green, and blue, fill in the gaps, fairly numerous but with each colour growing sparser as it moves up the spectrum.   
  
Gamzee slouches in the midst of the thin collection of indigos, easily the tallest of the group even with his poor posture. He's watching, taking in the whole spectacle with the easy calm afforded to him by the pie he had not too long ago. He sees Sollux mingling with some other mustard-blooded trolls, Equius with a group of silent bluebloods, and Terezi's cackle is clearly audible from where the lighter blue-bloods are collected. Karkat huddles in a group of red-hued rustbloods, where his bright red seems a little less out of place, finding some semblance of safe anonymity in his shirt with its grey intersecting crescents (a sign, Kanaya said, that is rarely used and Terezi says isn't on record for being assigned to any wrigglers in their age group). Tavros is in a throng of orange-brown-blooded trolls, being given a wide berth because of the sheer size of his horns, but the other trolls are talking to him, asking about his prosthetic legs and ambitions, and the usually-hesitant troll is grinning and talking with the others as though he has nothing to fear. The lanky troll turns to look up the hemospectrum, where Eridan is gathered with a group of seadwellers, each of them posturing to look more aloof and elegant than the troll next to them.   
  
Kanaya is nowhere to be seen, but that's to be expected. She'd been so adamant about avoiding the proceedings, it would have been a miracle if she'd shown up. By now, she was likely deep in the rocky hills and forests that surrounded the region, well out of the reach of the drones for now. Besides, Gamzee mused, if she had shown up, she would've been culled on the spot for having glowing skin. It wasn't too dark yet, but Kanaya's skin was bright enough to give her away.   
  
The drones start  to move in, culling forks at the ready. A number of rustbloods find their way onto the deadly instruments, but not Karkat, and Gamzee heaves an audible sigh of relief that his moirail's escaped culling for now. A droopy-horned girl next to him is giggling at the sight of the ruddy blood dripping on the ground, and Karkat's snarl in her direction does nothing to silence her. Instead, she nudges him towards the drones, who ignore him and move on to other trolls.   
  
There are drones on Gamzee's end of the hemospectrum, too, making their way down the line. A violet-blooded troll, with tight-looping horns and a torn facial fin, is culled on the spot before the drones move on, and the highbloods all seem a little less at-ease now. Not Gamzee, though. Instead, he watches the drones inspecting the orangebloods, the warm blooded trolls catching his eye with their quick, easy movements, especially when compared to the stiff, still highbloods nearby. Half a dozen orangebloods are culled, but Tavros is still standing, albeit on shaky steel legs, when the drones pull back. The grin that spreads across Gamzee's clown-painted face is genuine because, hey, it looks like Terezi was right, and Tavbro isn't going to be culled for his robo-legs.   
  
An adult troll approaches the remaining orangebloods as the drones move on to the yellow- and greenbloods. The adult is clad in stiff clothing that's a few shades darker than their grey skin, and he moves as though each step is a matter of calculation. He approaches Tavros, and Gamzee sees his mouth move as he addresses his little friend, though his words are too quiet to hear over the shrieks of young trolls being impaled on culling forks. Tavros says something in response, and it's clear from the way his mouth moves that he's nervous, hesitant, about addressing this troll. The adult makes a gesture, and Tavros winces before handing over the lance he'd brought with him in his strife specibus. There's no harm in that, Gamzee knows; young trolls were expected to bring their own weapons, so a random inspection from an adult troll wasn't that out of place.    
  
The adult troll mutters something, emotionless eyes scanning the lance, and Tavros smiles. Praise from the adult, it seems. The elder troll offers a thin smile of their own in return before hefting the lance in his own grip and ramming it through the smaller troll's chest.   
  
There's a sound that's equal parts sob and shriek, and Gamzee finds his Deuce Clubs in his long-fingered grip before he can give it a second thought. A part of him is dimly aware that he shouldn't be doing this, that he's risking his own life now, that Tavros knew the risks of showing up here today, but he ignores it. The world around him has slowed to a honeylike pace, and Gamzee is battering his way through the throng with his clubs, because no adult troll is going to take his Tavbro from him again, not if he can help it.    
  
He sees Equius in front of him, trying to placate him with his words, and Karkat is watching him from the other side of the line, horrified at what he's witnessing, as Gamzee lashes out. There's a sickening crunch when a blueblood doesn't move her arm quickly enough, and the rustblood next to Karkat is laughing, and suddenly, there is nothing that Gamzee wants more than to subjuggulate her and the troll who culled Tavros, because there is nothing funny about death, and he knows that, he  _learned_ that back when he thought he was the Mirthful Messiahs.    
  
Drones are pushing in around him now, and he can see the stiff troll with chocolate blood splattered on his jacket standing just out of reach, just a few paces behind the imperial drones. Gamzee adjusts his grip on the handles of his Deuce Clubs.   
  
"Motherfuckers need to get out of my motherfucking way before I up and break your heads in," he snarls, half-aware of the stupidity of his words. "Because I ain't gonna let some tightass fucker kill my Tavbro."   
  
"Gamzee, cut it out!" Karkat's shouting at him, trying to push his way through the lower colours of the hemospectrum to get to him, to placate his moirail before he gets himself culled, but Terezi sticks out her cane to stop his progress, and he's left screaming helplessly while the blind troll restrains him.   
  
A drone bellows something unintelligible, to which Tavros' murderer nods, his face emotionless as he watches the scene unfolding. Gamzee uses it as a cue to launch himself at the hulking bodies, laughing because, hey, he's going to get his ass culled for no fucking reasons, and that's just the biggest joke of all. Something jabs into his gut, and there's a heavy blow to the back of his head, and everything goes black.


	2. Chapter 2

You're all herded on board the waiting ships after that, in a massive press of bodies that makes you feel claustrophobic. Terezi's somewhere in here, and you can hear Equius' way-too-calm "Pardon me"s and Sollux's lisping over the growls and threats of the crowd. You can barely see Eridan's horns in the throng, but you can see the much smaller group of seadwellers being escorted-- not forced, or herded, escorted\-- on another ship, away from everyone else, and you can't say you're surprised that they're being treated like fucking royalty, not after what just happened.  
  
Terezi had tried to explain to you, after the drones had dispersed and one had dragged Gamzee's prone body with it onto one of the ships (the same ship, coincidentally, that you're being forced on now), that he'd be safe because of his blood colour, that highbloods were treated differently than lowbloods and if you'd gotten involved, you'd likely be culled for gross insubordination or having blood of any hue lower than light blue.  
  
"Besides," she'd hissed as the drones began screeching and shoving you all towards the ships. "You'd both be dead if they thought you were in a quadrant." And she'd cackled at that, as orange- and greenbloods had pressed between the two of you and the crowd swallowed you both.  
  
One of the rustbloods next to you, the one with the drooping horns who was laughing earlier, elbows you in the side, and that jolts you back to reality. Snarling, you shove her back, and she stumbles and bumps into a broad-chested greenblood, who growls and pushes her right back into you. You expect her to shove or hit you now, but she's laughing, like it's the best fucking joke, and that's more than a little unnerving, and you elbow her in the side to try and make her stop. She doesn't, and you do your best to shove your way through the throng to get away from her freaky laughter.  
  
It feels like it's been hours before you're safely inside the ship, and you guess that this would be the cargo bay any other day. Right now, it looks like a whole bunch of adminisblocks without any walls or doors between them, with a pair of trolls behind each long counter, lines of trolls formed from the crowd you're in, and a couple of taller trolls walking around between the lines and counters. It's like the opening scene of the first episode of Thresh Prince of Bel-Air, but it's so fucking loud and crowded in here that the comparison is almost swallowed up in it. You're jostled towards the front of the group and into one of the dozen or so lines splitting off from it, and you see Sollux a couple lines away from where you are. He looks as serious as ever, and you remember that he never expected to make it this far, that he thought you'd all be dead sweeps ago. You want to shout to him, to tell him to cheer the fuck up because he's still alive, to remind him that he's got nothing to worry about, but the noise in the hold would easily drown out whatever you shouted, so you keep your mouth shut, focus your attention on your line, and fold your arms around your chest, covering up the stolen symbol on your shirt. You watch as the line slowly, steadily, moves forward, watching as the trolls ahead of you are prompted to surrender their strife specibus for inspection, are looked over by the medicynic at the counter, have their files inspected by the historiculler sitting there, and are sorted into their careers. It _i_ s just like Thresh Prince, you decide, even if it's fucking noisy and slower than the oozing trail left behind by a legless slimeworm as it attempts its clumsy and overly complicated mating ritual in the branches of a tree.  
  
You don't pay a lot of attention to anything as you slowly move up in the line. You watch Sollux receive his rank assignment a few lines away, but you don't know what that is, only that he seems oddly calm and resigned to whatever it is. Equius is after him, grey skin a blue sheen that tells you how heavily he's sweating, and the relief on his face when he's dismissed is clear, even from a distance. The line oozes forward, and it feels like an eternity before you're at the counter, and you still have one more troll waiting in front of you.  
  
You don't pay much attention to them, mostly because their voice is slow and languid, worse than Gamzee's voice when he ate three sopor slime pies that one time, and you figure this fucker'll get culled when one of the roaming medicynics, the tall one with thin, straight horns and a crooked nose, stops next to the counter.  
  
"What have wee got heere?" He's grinning at the short, sleepy-eyed troll that's taking all the time in the fucking world to get culled, and the spiral-horned historiculler at the counter sighs, looking up from the form she's filling out.  
  
"Grreenblood, sirr," she answers, rolling her r's as she speaks. "Culling forr medical rreasons."  
  
That doesn't surprise you much, but you're a little surprised to see the lack of surprise on the troll-in-question's face, and a little more surprised when the older medicynic looks surprised.  
  
"Meedical reeasons?" He says, almost squawks. The historiculler presses her lips into a line, and the medicynic she's been paired with winces when his horn is smacked by the elder. "Jeerasl, teell mee what reeason you've got for culling this wriggleer," he orders, and the young troll gapes at him for a minute. "This is an eexamination, novice," the medicynic says, sounding much less polite now, and Jerasl is practically tripping over his tongue to get the words out.  
  
"Too relaxed and tired, sir," he babbles. "Subject can barely keep his eyes open, and has an issue with speech. He's not fit for combat, sir."  
  
Looking at the troll in question, you can't help but agree. He's practically nodding off right now, even as his fate's being decided right in front of him! You don't want to get yourself culled, and it's a little hypocritical of you to agree with the culling of another troll, given your circumstances, but every trollkid knows that Conscription Day isn't a piece of cake.  
  
The senior medicynic doesn't seem to agree. He pushes Jerasl aside and raps his claw on the counter in front of the greenblood, who opens his eyes halfway and gives him the dopiest, most relaxed look you've ever seen on any troll who wasn't Gamzee. This guy could probably give your moirail a run for his money, if your moirail's still alive like Terezi said. The medicynic sighs, ignores the self-satisfied smirk the historiculler is giving him, and looks at his novice.  
  
"Take him to thee meedical wing, run some teests, and I'll wageer you'll find hee's got a seensitivity to sopor." He reaches over the counter to ruffle the young troll's messy hair, and he grins. "Assign him to Historiculleer Varieex, Marween," he tells the smug historiculler, and the smirk vanishes from her face faster than a squeakbeast when surrounded by a pack of two-mouthed feline lusii.  
  
"Sirr," she stammers, and this is like something out of one of your favourite movies. One of the ones where Troll Adam Sandler is a bumbling idiot saved by a benevolent benefactor early on, only to discover that his benefactor had other plans for him, plans that, to your trained eye, looked to wax suspiciously black. "Historricullerr Varriex hasn't been apprroved to take a novice--"  
  
"Reeally?" The smirk reappears on the medicynic's face, and the crooked nose he's got manages to make it look a little more sinister. "Beecause I'm quite ceertain I just approved him for one. Unleess you're looking to fail your eexam by queestioning a ranking officeer?"  
  
Ranking officer? You glance at his white coat, and sure enough, there's a little silver pin on one of the lapels, a circle with a green star on it, and you've seen enough movie and television shows to know what that means.  
  
This guy's not just a regular medicynic lecturing a couple of novices during their exams. He's the ranking medicynic on this ship, and he just elbowed out the novice to make him take the greenblood he just rescued to the medical bay.  
  
And now it's your turn.  
  
You must've looked terrified, because he gives you a look that's probably supposed to be reassuring. "I haveen't seen that symbol since I was studying for my own eexams," he says, partly to you, partly to the still-shocked historiculler by his side, and you take it as a cue to step up to the counter. You've seen this happen at least a dozen times on the screen back in your hive, you know this process practically by heart, and there's no reason for him to cull you. Except, you know, you're a disgusting mutant (which is an easily cullable offence) who is hiding his actual symbol (another cullable offence) by replacing it with a symbol that you've stolen (yet another cullable offence) and is also hiding his actual blood colour (grounds for culling) by lying about his position on the hemospectrum to members of the Alternian fleet (oh wow, another reason to cull you). Really, you're not sure how they're going to cull you at least five times if you get caught. You don't want to know. Without waiting for him to prompt you further, you draw your sickle out of your strife portfolio, place it on the counter for inspection, and drop your gaze to your shoes, in case one of them figures out your real blood colour from your eyes. Out of your peripheral vision, you see the medicynic nudge the historiculler.  
  
"Come on, it's still an eexam," he tells her, and she straightens up, losing the shocked expression on her face to shuffle the forms in front of her and tap her claw on the screen of her tablet husktop.  
  
"Rright. Hatchnames?" she rolls, and of course you aren't ready for this with a fake name. You didn't think this through enough, like the halfwit you are. She can look you up by your name and pull your actual symbol and blood colour and pretty much everything about you up on that screen, and you'll be a rotting corpse before you can say "mutant freak".  
  
But, at this point, there's nothing you can do, so you might as well face it head-on, so you can die without being a coward as well as a halfwitted mutant freak who can't think his plans all the way through. "Karkat Vantas," you tell her, and wow, does your voice sound more ornery than usual. She taps it in to her screen, sighs, and you glance up to see her giving you a withering look.  
  
"No trrolls on rrecorrd with that parrticularr hatchname," she says. There's a chuckle from the chief medicynic, and she focuses that annoyed expression on him instead. "His symbol's not on rrecorrd forr this sweep's hatchlings, eitherr, sirr."  
  
"You act like thee nurtriarchs haveen't misplaced files on grubs beefore," he says, still chuckling. When her expression doesn't change, he sighs and rolls his eyes. "Honeestly, do you think any reecruit's rotpanned eenough to lie about his symbol or hatchname at conscription? I meean, look at him--" and here, he gestures at you with one hand. "Hee's a little reedblood with a funny symbol who got his files misplaced sweeps ago. You can wieeld that sickle, can't you?" He turns to look at you, and you don't think you've nodded quite so fast in your miserably short life. That seems to have satisfied him, and he turns back to Marwen. "You geet him on reecord, put him with thee otheer threesheecutioneer reecruits, and wee'll--"  
  
"Sirr," Marwen interrupts, looking you dead in the eye, and you freeze. "I don't have a blood colourr forr him." She looks like she's seriously inspecting your eyes, your face, any part of you she can see to try and figure out your position on the hemospectrum, until the elder snatches the palm device from her and begins tapping data into its screen, talking as he works.  
  
"Typical low rustblood, Marween, low eenough to bee almost pink, eexceept his symbol's thee wrong sort for that." He pauses, looks up from the screen at you, one claw hovering over the display. "I suppose that, giveen your strife speecibus, you'll bee wanting to bee a threesheecutioneer?" You nod, afraid that if you say something aloud, you'll bring attention to your blood colour or destroy whatever's happening right now. He looks back down at the screen, taps it a few more times, and shoves it into Marwen's hands. "Geet yourseelf oveer to seector six for outfitting," he orders you, pushing your strife specibus back across the counter. You're quick to grab it and store it in your portfolio, in case his mind changes and you have to fight for your pathetic life.  
  
Not that it'd do much good; there are too many trolls here, bigger and stronger and faster than you could ever hope to be. But you'd at least like to go down fighting. It'd at least mean you'd thought you'd had a chance.  
  
"Once you've got your uniform, you'll reeport to Captain Zayos for training and reespiteblock assignment," the medicynic continues. "Don't go pissing him off, hee's not fond of reecruits." He nods dismissively at you, and there's something about the smile on the face that unnerves you, makes you want to ask him what he means or why he saved your sorry ass from being culled, but you'll be damned if you're going to look this gift hoofbeast in the mouth. You nod at him, mumble some sort of 'thanks' under your breath, and you barely restrain yourself from running towards the clearly-marked sign that designates Sector Six.  
  
You're worried, of course. You have no idea where Gamzee is, or if he's okay. You don't know where Sollux is, either, or Terezi, or any of your friends who managed to not get culled (and maybe some of them _did_ get culled, but you just didn't see it). And you could still be culled any second now for bumping into a highblood (and you're supposed to be a rustblood, the lowest of the low, so  everyone is higher than you) or pissing off any troll nearby or having someone figure out your real symbol, your actual bloodhue. You'll have to be careful, that's obvious enough, and you'll be lucky to survive to see the end of today, to survive any day coming up, and luck has never been your thing, so you might as well cull yourself now.       
  


\------------

  


When you come to, your  head is throbbing and your  vision is fuzzy at the edges. Groaning, you try to remember what stupid thing you did this time to knock yourself out. You can't remember riding your one-wheeled device recently, so that couldn't have done it, and you'd only had a single sopor slime pie that evening because Karkat had been adamant that you at least be vaguely sober when you went down to the ships for conscription--  
  
The memory hits you like an angry hoofbeast: Tavros had managed to survive culling by the drones, only to get stabbed through the chest by a flat-horned adult troll who'd been overseeing the whole affair, and when you'd tried to go after the motherfucker for culling your Tavbro, a bunch of drones had ganged up on your ass, and everything between you lunging at the T-horned fucker and now was a blank. From what you can tell right now with your head all up and hurting and your eyes playing tricks like this, you aren't outside anymore; it's too bright in here to be outside, and whatever's hanging way up over you is a weird shade of green, which isn't any shade of sky you know, and you can feel something that's smooth, hard, and definitely not the ground under your bare forearms. You growl and close your eyes. You're inside something, somewhere, and that would feel a hell of a lot better if you didn't know that you were still alive after trying to attack another troll, an adult troll, while Tavros was dead for doing absolutely nothing. There's probably something in there that's miraculous, something that sings with the dark truths of your Mirthful Messiahs, but you haven't had a ton of faith in that shit since Karkat shoosh-papped you out of a sober insanity.   
  
"Seedative's weearing off," a baritone voice calls out from somewhere nearby, and there's a claw tapping on your wrist. "Come on, little Capricorn, sit yourseelf up, geet those peepeers opeen, I haveen't got all peerigee to wait on you."  
  
"Fuck off," you mutter, pulling your arm towards your body (and away from the claw) because you aren't in any mood to deal with someone jabbing at you, only to have your wrist grabbed by the stranger and yanked away. You open your eyes and blink a couple of times, trying to bring whatever crazy fucker's jabbing his claw into your arm into focus.   
  
The troll's tall, with slim, straight horns, like a pair of needles, and a nose that's crooked in more than one place. "That's right, highblood, wake up," he croons mockingly in his long, white coat while you struggle to comply. "Sit your skinny ass up so I can cheeck you out of heere and geet back to work, come on. I'm not beeing paid to eenteertain highbloods with no seense in theeir thinkpans."   
  
"You ain't that entertaining, doc-bro," you grumble, now sitting up and glaring at the still-vaguely-fuzzy medical troll. This gets you a chuckle, which makes you start laughing. You don't give two shits about this motherfucker, or his job, or anything, because this guy's probably on the same team as that brother who up and ended Tavros, and you've got one hell of a headache right now, and your left arm's a bit sore up near the shoulder from something, but his laugh is all kinds of weird, and that strikes you as being pretty laughworthy.  
  
"True, but I've no mind to bee culled, eeitheer." The taller troll leans down and examines your face, then lightly slaps you on the jaw, hard enough to get your attention, but only just. "If you can see propeerly and sit up, theen I'm supposed to have you seent to Historiculleer Varieex, Capricorn," he says as he stands up and backs away. Turning to one side, he makes a gesture, and a troll closer to your own age comes out, clad in a loose grey shirt and loose grey pants, her left arm in a sling, and you know there's some kind of miracle in this, or at least some of that ironic shit, because you've seen this sister before, back when you bashed her shoulder with your clubs for getting too close to you when you were trying to fuck up the brother who culled Tavros, though she's definitely fuzzier in your vision now. She looks fucking pissed with you, with her nostrils flared and her skin flushed blue, and you can't help but give her a grin and a wave of your hand. Your arm doesn't quite feel like it's fully attached to your body, so you must still have some sopor in your system, and that thought makes your smile widen.  
  
"Novice Rotkod heere is going to eescort you theere," the older medical troll says coolly, ignoring the silent exchange. "And if I heear of you giving heer any more trouble than you have alreeady, you'll bee finding yourseelf in a bit of trouble neext time you need a meedicynic, purple blood or no!" With that, he gives you a rough shove off the bench you'd been sitting on, and you stumble on legs that are still unsteady from the sopor slime you'd ingested who-fucking-knows-how-long ago. When you turn around to snarl at him for doing that, because that shit is fucking rude, he just grins, like you're some kind of joke, and waves his hand in dismissal. The blueblood girl grabs you by the wrist with her good arm and pulls you along behind her and out of the room, muttering something under her breath that you can't quite make out.  
  
You move with a sort of lazy grace as you're dragged down hallways that are cold, shiny metal. You can almost see your reflection in the walls, and you stop to stare at yourself in one polished panel. Your escort tugs at your arm, trying to make you keep moving, and you stumble sideways towards her.   
  
"What's the fucking rush, sis?" You ask, and your voice echoes in the corridor, even though you weren't even talking all that loud. The blueblood doesn't turn around, just keeps walking, but at least she bothers to say something that you can understand.  
  
"I was going to be a bloody cavalreaper," she growls, and there's an airy hiss behind her words. "I spent my whole fucking life training for that, and you had to come along with your bloody clubs and wreck my shoulder up 'cos of some stupid rustblood getting culled." There's a snarl that you're certain isn't coming from you. "Idiot like you should've been culled, you're a liability, and instead you're getting sent in for a little slap on the wri--"  
  
"That'ff quite enough, noviffe." You didn't hear a door open, but there's a troll standing in front of you both now, the same motherfucker who culled Tavros, and the blueblood stops dragging you and looks terrified as all fuck at his appearance. You just stand there, looking up at him, because even though you're tall, he's a couple heads taller than you, and you aren't sure whether you should grin or growl at him. You don't get time to make that decision, though, because he's taking you by the arm and pulling you into the room with him.   
  
"Pleaffe infform one of the ffubjuggulatorff that one off their noviffeff iff here," the angular troll lisps, and he must've freaked that girl out, because there's the telltale sound of someone running on a metal floor, and the adult closes the door and looks at you. You can't tell if he's pissed, pleased, or anything, because he's got the same look on his face that Aradia had when she was a robot, no emotions or anything going on. He gestures to a chair in front of a good-sized desk and walks around to a bigger one that's all smooth and black on the other side of it. You take the offered seat, the hard molded plastic giving your legs a break from standing.  
  
"You are quite ffortunate to be alive, Capricorn," he tells you as he shuffles through the folder of papers in front of you both. His voice is pretty emotionless, too, and if it weren't for the fact that his eyes are blue and his horns being all weird and flat and angular, you'd think he was Aradia's ectobiological twin. "Mofft recruitff who attempted to avenge the culling of a ffweepmate, while injuring numerouff ffweepmateff in the proffeff, would have been culled on the ffpot." The smile he gives you as he pulls out a single piece of paper is thin. "It iff to your advantage that culling highbloodff ffor ffuch behaviour requireff a great deal of paperwork and much better reaffonff behind it."  
  
You're probably supposed to be relieved by that, but something at the back of your thinkpan is bugging you. "I'm still alive 'cos you didn't have the fucking time to up and cull me?" Your voice sounds more sopor-dulled than it did before, and the thin smile vanishes from the other troll's face.  
  
"You are fftill alive, Capricorn," he folds his hands on the desk, trapping the paper under his hands, "becauffe you are remarkably ffortunate ffor one ffo young." You catch a glimpse of the paper, and there's a bunch of little words on it in green ink, but you see your symbol up near the top, and a couple others on it as well. One of them looks like a triangle pointed downwards, but with the line at the top chopped in half and turned the other way. Like the horns on this guy in front of you. A cough interrupts your examination of the document, and you look up to see him staring at you.  
  
"Iff you wouldn't mind, Capricorn," he continues, as if you'd just sat there and listened, instead of trying to snoop on the shit on his desk. "I would appreciate hearing your reaffoning aff to your actionff earlier."  
  
Aww, shit.  
  
You stumble for the answer least likely to get you culled, but you've got the feeling that this troll would take any excuse to cull you the same way he did Tavros. "You up and culled my motherfucking friend," you manage, and you can hear the way your words come out a bit slurred. "And after he got through the fucking drones, too."  
  
Another thin smile. "Were you unaware off conffcription proffedureff regarding pofft-dronal cullingff?" He asks, one eyebrow arched, and you're starting to think that he thinks you're a rotpanned moron.  
  
"Just don't seem motherfucking fair's all," you answer, folding your arms across your chest as you slouch back in your chair. "There wasn't anything wrong with Tavros. He got his fucking legs fixed and his walk on, just like every other motherfucker there."  
  
"There iff very little that iff 'ffair', Capricorn." Your interrogator's attempt at a smile disappears, and he picks up a pen to scrawl something down on a clean sheet of paper. "Aff there exifftff no evidenffe that the culled troll in quefftion waff in a quadrant with you, we will have to move on to more preffing matterff."   
  
You bite your lower lip with your teeth to keep yourself from telling him that he can stick that shit up his nook, because you're pretty damn sure that you don't want to see his reaction to that. Not when you've already got the feeling that this motherfucker'd jump at any chance to kill you. So you stay silent as he continues to talk.  
  
"According to Mediffynic Katffid'ff report, you have an afftonishing amount of ffopor in your ffyfftem." His eyes move to look at you, though nothing else moves, and it's like he's studying you, trying to decide if that report's real or not from how you react. "An amount that, according to him, would make it rather difficult ffor you to have ffuch quick refflexes aff the oneff you diffplayed early thiff evening." Now his head comes up all the way, and you feel like shrinking, because his stare is that intense. "According to Mediffynic Katffid'ff report, you ought to be dead or completely inffane, and--"  
  
"Weell, hee ceertainly isn't deead, Tairol." There's a voice at the door before it swooshes open, and you turn your head to find yourself staring at the newcomer, the exact same troll you woke up to just a little bit ago. He's grinning like he just arrived to a wriggling day party instead of a fucking trial about your sopor usage, and you're a little relieved to have the angular troll turn his attention away from you for a couple seconds, even if his expression hasn't changed.   
  
"Thiff iffn't your juriffdiction, Ffirugi," he says, and you guess that the medic guy must be the same one who wrote the report about you. "Capricorn and I are diffcuffing your report right now." The medical troll doesn't stop smiling, and you guess he's got all hells of mirth going on, or there's something really funny about all this. Whatever it is, he doesn't really pay much attention to Tairol's statement, just walks closer to you both before he sits on the corner of the desk, facing you.  
  
"You've got a name, haveen't you?" He asks. He sounds genuinely curious, and you guess it'd be nice to hear someone call you something other than Capricorn.  
  
"Makara," you tell him, and the word comes out a little slower than you'd like. "Gamzee Makara."  
  
"Weell, little Makara," and his grin grows marginally wider. "I'm Chieef Meedicynic Cirugi Katsid, and the lisping feellow who's no doubt been giving you quite the leecture is Seenior Historiculleer Tairol Varieex."   
  
"He doeffn't need our nameff and titleff, Ffirugi," Tairol mutters, and you're a little pleased to see that his blank face looks a little more annoyed now.  
  
Cirugi laughs, and this time, you don't know whether you should join him or not. "Weell, hee'll ceertainly need to know who wee are if hee's going to be reeporting late for reespiteblock assignmeents tonight," he says, giving you a wink.  
  
"So, you're gonna up and let me go?" You're hopeful, because you figure this Cirugi guy isn't nearly as bad as Tairol, not if he can find mirth in all this, but your hope dies in your chest when Cirugi shakes his head.  
  
"'Fraid I can't just leet you go, Makara," he says, and behind him, Tairol's got a sly little grin on his face, like he's a meowbeast who just got the cream. "Tairol heere's got to deecide that. Most I can do is reemind Tairol that theere are pleenty of reeasons to not cull you tonight." He shrugs, and he looks like he wants to tell you he's sorry about this happening after everything else that's happened.  
  
Tairol coughs like he's trying to clear his throat. "To be ffrank, Capricorn, you should have been culled ffor ffopor conffumption and mental infftability," he tells you, and he doesn't sound like he's trying to be mean or nice, his tone is so flat. "Mediffynic Katffid iff under the impression that both are treatable, and that you will be perffectly capable off training with your ffweepmateff." He arches his eyebrow again, and now you think that he's doing that so you know that he doesn't think anything Cirugi says is a hundred percent true. "Aff a reffult, I am unable to cull you--"  
  
You can't help yourself: you grin, air rushing out of you in a relieved sigh that you didn't even know was building up. The historiculler stares at you like you've just taken out your bulge instead of making with the relief noises, and then he continues like you haven't done anything.  
  
"I am, however, required to affertain knowledge off your ffopor uffage beffore releaffing you to begin training." He taps his pen against the paper, as if prompting you to spill your whole history with sopor slime. You hesitate, because you aren't sure where to start, and Cirugi comes to your rescue.  
  
"Theere's at leeast half a bottle of undiluteed sopor in you," the medicynic says, and he doesn't sound nearly as happy now as when he walked in. "That's eenough to knock most trolls out, Makara, so you're eeitheer lucky or you've been using it for quite some time. If you can't teell us which it is, theen wee're going to have quite a probleem, and I'd ratheer not give you the wrong dosees. Geets a bit meessy." He wrinkles his crooked nose, and you start to get an inkling of what he's getting at here. They aren't going to cull you, this motherfucker's going to try and get you sober, and that thought's as comforting as it is terrifying. Must've shown on your face, too, because Tairol's got both his skinny eyebrows raised now, and you figure you might as well get explaining before they retract that offer of not culling your ass.  
  
"Been using it a long time," you tell them. "Since I was just a few sweeps old or something, and it just kinda stuck." You shrug, hoping that's enough for them.  
  
It isn't. "You have fftraight ffopor in your ffyfftem, Capricorn," Tairol says, as if you didn't know that already. "Thiff iffn't a matter off ffimply eating ffrom your recuperacoon. You were ingeffting it fftraight\--"  
  
"I baked it." Your voice is a little croaky when you interrupt him, and you suddenly want to just wake up in your recuperacoon back home and find out this is just a wicked nightmare or some shit. "Ate it like a motherfucking pie." You don't mention that you were sober for a little bit, back when you were six sweeps old and stuck on the meteor with all your friends, because you don't want them to know what that did to you, that it made you go fucking insane and you murdered two of your friends  
  
They look a little surprised at that, and Cirugi bites his lower lip. "Baked sopor?" He asks, seeking confirmation, and you nod and shrug at the same time, because you just fucking said that you'd been baking it. He sighs and shakes his head. "Weell, it could've been worse, I suppose." He looks behind him at Tairol, who looks like his lips couldn't get any thinner if he tried. "This, I can fix," Cirugi tells him, gesturing at you with one hand. "Hee's not thee first wiggleer to deeveelop a sopor addiction, Tairol, and I can promise you that hee won't be thee last, eeitheer."  
  
Tairol's nose crinkles up, like something just flew up it and he's about to sneeze. "Recordff show that trollff with ffopor addictionff off leffer ffeverity were dangerouff to otherff--" He starts to say, before Cirugi cuts him off.  
  
"Is it always about reecords with you?" He snarls, and you're realise that they're fighting over whether they should cull or try and cure your sorry ass. The medical troll slams his fist down on the desk, and you and the historiculler both jump in your seats. "Just 'cos it happeened to some rotpanned nooksuckeer in thee past doesn't meean you have to cull eeveery fool who's unfortunate eenough to share a trait!"  
  
"I do what I am required do to aff part off my dutieff," Tairol replies, and his flat voice sounds a hell of a lot less flat and a hell of a lot more agitated now. "I do not cull trollff becauffe I ffind it to be entertaining, I do it to protect the entire ffleet ffrom repeating pafft mifftakeff."  
  
It occurs to you now that they aren't just arguing over you, and you're starting to figure out why Tavros was culled. He was unlucky. He had something going on that Tairol had read about in one of his books, and that something hadn't been any good, so he up and culled your little fudge-blooded brother for reminding him of the fucker that did that shit way back when. Tavros had been part of a bad miracle, like the shit that had made you snap and kill Nepeta and Equius back in the game, but he'd gotten culled for real this time. There's something almost comforting in knowing that, but it doesn't make you like Tairol any better. Tavros wasn't a fucking threat to anyone.  
  
Cirugi's giving Tairol a real serious look now, and after a minute, he sighs again, and looks back at you, then back at the other guy. "The Grand Highblood'll have both our heeads if anything goes wrong with him beecause of thee sopor," he says, not like he's angry or nothing, but like he's giving everything some real thought. The angular troll nods, and Cirugi keeps talking. "But hee’ll have theem if hee's culled, too." And he's looking back at you, the grin back on his face.  
  
"It's not going to bee eeasy to geet you sobeer, Makara," he tells you, and boy, do you fucking know it. "And you're probably not going to like it much, eeitheer, but leet me teell you, it's a sight beetteer than leetting a historiculleer gut you." Cirugi grabs a piece of paper off of the desk and pulls a pen out of a pocket, and he scrawls something on it in green and hands it to you. The writing's messy as fuck, which is saying something, because your own handwriting's not exactly perfect itself, but you see your loopy symbol once or twice on it, and there's another symbol on it near the bottom, the same as the one on his pocket, like an M with a line through it and at the bottom of where it opens up. You can't read anything else on it, though, because the letters all run together and you never really got the hang of the finer points of Alternian writing, anyway.  
  
"That," the medicynic says, interrupting your attempt to decipher the paper. "Keep that somewheere safe, and show it to whateever poor fool's been put in charge of the subjuggulator novicees tonight so hee doesn't subjuggulate you for beeing late--"  
  
"Ffubjuggulatorff don't plaffe much importanffe on timelineff."  
  
"--And you'll have to have someone show you thee way to thee meedicynic seector afteer you're wokeen up tomorrow eeveening so I can have you looked at and treeateed first thing. Don't want you accideentally culling one of your sweepmates beefore you've had a chance to make a deecision as to which one offeends you most." There's a way in how he says that that comes off as being pretty bitter, but before you can ask what he means, he's pushed you out of your chair, and you're stumbling to stand instead of falling over on your ass. When you try to glare at him (it's not really a glare, because you're a little bewildered about him shoving you around), he's all grins, and you figure you can see every one of his fangs in that smile. "Tonight, though, beest wee just leet you geet it out of your systeem the old fashioned way. Might make some frieends thee way you are now."  
  
The door opens, and a tall fucker in white and grey facepaint and a wicked stitched line down one arm is standing there, hunched over and looking like there's nothing she wants less than to be there. She's got pants that are like yours, but she's wearing a belt with a loopy squarish sort of symbol on it, like her horns, and her shirt's a sleeveless thing with two wide stripes of purple against black, and she's got armcuffs that would be all black if it weren't for a couple thin stripes of purple near the wrist. Her facepaint's funny, too; her mouth's outlined sorta like yours, but she's got one big curl of grey around one eye, and a trail of grey under the other. Tairol jumps to stand, but Cirugi's a lot slower about it, and you aren't sure if you're supposed to stand up or not. But whoever this is, you at least know she's a subjuggulator, because she's wearing the same uniform that you grew up dreaming of wearing.  
  
She looks over at you, and she snorts. "So, you're the motherfucker who flipped the fuck out at conscription," she says, and her voice is all deep and growling, with a rhythm in how she says her words. It's nice to see someone else in facepaint, though, and you grin.  
  
"Pretty sure I'm that motherfucker," you answer. "These guys here say it's a fucking miracle I--"  
  
"I don't give a squeakbeast's fart what these two said," she snarls, and her hand's grabbing one of your horns and yanking you towards her. You yelp, because fuck, that hurts. "I got my ass called down here to deal with your sorry sopored ass, and I've got more important shit to do than deal with lowblooded fucktards."  
  
Cirugi's giving her a pretty pissed look now. "If I reecall, it was Meedicynic Alliar who sticheed your arm back up the otheer night, Jeeran," he says, with a sort of dangerous tone in his voice that you hadn't heard yet.   
  
Your captor just snorts again, pulling you behind her as she storms out of the room and down the hall, and you scramble to keep pace with her, because you've got the feeling that she'd rip your horn off if you didn't keep up, and it fucking hurts if you don't keep close enough.  
  
You're starting to wonder if staying alive was a good idea.


End file.
